alone
by sort of abandoned
Summary: a house is not a home when you wouldn't mind rotting away in it alone. — Dipper-centric. / probably one of the most bland things i've ever written.


"Ha," I spit at the white walls that keep me company on lonely days, "She seriously has the nerve to tell me that she's here for me just a few minutes after she calls people like me subhuman."

"She doesn't know half of what I'm going through," I mutter bitterly, "And if she knew, she'd do just about everything short of killing me, because murder is illegal."

"But then again, killing isn't always making somebody die physically, is it?" I ask nobody in particular as I look at my hands and wonder if my body is real; I wonder if my suffering is just someone's sick daydream.

I hope it is all fake, and I would like for the person running these scenarios in their mind to kindly and quickly wake up, or pay attention in lessons or at work instead of daydreaming or sleeping.

The little person you are dreaming up is hurting and would like for it to stop.

I look blankly at these walls; I stare and try to find some type of purpose in this home and I find none. I find that everything in this home is useless unless I am explicitly complying with it and its needs. I find that I cannot please others; I find that I would have to change too much.

I'm too tired to change. The forced changes that I've already been through have made me empty. You could knock on my head and the sound would reverberate in my skull and come out of my ears in an echo; you could shout, "IS ANYBODY IN THERE? ANYBODY HOME," but you would not hear a single thing from me.

 _And I wasn't alone._

—

Sweat drips in front of my eyes as I sprint through the cluster of trees behind my house. I don't even think about looking back. The only evidence that I'm being followed is the vehement snarls coming from the horrible scene I just ran from. A twisted mess of blood and skin lay strewn over what was once my sister and I's "secret base". I thought it was some joke until I recognised her favourite jumper among the scraps off the side. A purple, shooting star sweater with endless stains from various condiments unimaginable adorning the front. She told me countless times how much she loved that sweater to _death._ But never in a literal sense — ever.

I start sobbing along with my ragged breaths. Mabel absolutely did not deserve anything like that. She was a brat every once in a while, but that didn't mean she should die.

My old sneakers finally touch down on our back patio. I throw the door open and try to close it without looking. The sliding glass moves a few inches, but remains mostly open. I turn and slam it the rest of the way, catching the sight of that monstrous thing when I do.

The thing I notice first is the pale blue skin. Like it was freezing cold. The empty white eyes come next, with that horrendous blue skin showing signs of a thin strand of skin having melted over the left eye. Long appendages that look like some mix between arms and an animals front legs follow them. I don't see anymore of it before I begin running for my dad's gun rack in the den.

My legs ache with exhaustion and distract me long enough for me to trip over myself. As I climb back to my feet, I hear a thunderous echo of skin against thick glass. I know it's trying to get in. My loose fitting converse shoes start to slide from my feet as I push toward the den. The right one comes off, and I just leave it. The imbalance of my feet is only a small distraction compared to whatever horrors that this creature has planned for me.

The den is a small room with two doorways leading in and out: the one that I'm using, and one that leads to the front room where I plan to make my escape. My feet slide to a stop in front of my uncle's gun rack, where I find the rifle he taught me to use a few years back on our first hunting trip. I get it loaded and turn to the entrance I just came through and hear the distinct cacophony of shattering glass. I slide the bullet in place and aim for the entryway. In what felt like an instant the monster is in the entryway, heading straight for me. I fire, aiming for the head, and the bullet flies inches over its left shoulder. Sliding the next bullet into place, I take aim. It's too late as the creature closes the distance between us. My right wrist is instantly in a tight grip, the rifle laying dormant on the carpet. A blue, yet human looking, nose moves toward me in a sniffing motion. I look away, not wanting to look into the dead eyes, and instead catch my eyes stuck on the hand that is grasping my wrist. Blue, like the rest of it, with a jet black at the very tip of each finger. The darkness draws in my attention even more when I realise that the beast has no fingernails. No claws. Nothing of the sort. Just rough, clammy skin covering every inch of the limbs.

Atrocious disgust takes over, and I avert my eyes from those ghastly things and my attention is grabbed by the demon's mouth. Black lips, like the fingertips, give way to a heinous grin of blood red fangs. As my attention becomes drawn more and more to the shreds of fabric and skin within the teeth, the savage animal jerks its left hand to my neck, and with what appears to be no effort at all, rips my throat right out.

With what little life I can still feel in me, I look up, blood gurgling from my gullet, and see the creature squatting down and looking happily into my eyes. As blackness takes over my vision, I see its gaze move toward the wall. I follow the line of sight with everything I have left, and find a photo framed on the wall of Mabel, me, and our parents standing in front of our house.

I hear the lock of the front door click unlocked, and the beast turns with a cackle. My dad calls out for Mabel, and the creature vanishes in his direction. The last sound that makes it through to me as I die on that shag carpet is the horrendous shriek, and sudden silence of my father being murdered by a monster.

I had no one, anymore, in these putrid houses.

For these houses are not homes when the homes you reside in physically and mentally are not of use to you like they once were when you were blind—

A house is not a home when you wouldn't mind rotting away in it alone.

A life is not a life when you have finally come to terms with living it alone,

A journey is not well-taken when you have kissed death too often at the very beginning,

A soul is not a good soul when you look into it and see more hurt than anyone or anything can heal,

A house is not a home when it is decrepit and rotting away just like its residents.

A heart is not a heart when it pumps out ice and dirt and grime instead of blood,

A life is not a life when you feel it ending when it just begins,

A house is not a home when you wouldn't mind rotting away in it alone,

 _A house is not a home when you wouldn't mind rotting away in it alone._

 _Alone._

* * *

 **a/n —** i have absolutely no idea why i wrote this; possibly because i wanted to write exactly how i was feeling. bloody hell, i haven't written a oneshot in months.


End file.
